


Whispered Memories

by Lestradesexwife



Series: These Blackest of Years [1]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Don't try this at home kids, Lovecraftian, M/M, Masturbation, Tentacles, Unresolved Sexual Tension, autoerotic tentacle porn, death of previous lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is an Ancient One. Becoming accustomed to not having, but it takes work. The day they've had has put ideas into John's head...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispered Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Octo!John is adorbs... this is not octo!john... take heed of the tags.
> 
> All hail the great and powerful Lacuna, Sandy and Aria for the read-through and beta-ing... not to mention putting up with my Gallifreyan disregard for tenses.

He collapses, trying to will the restless energy out of his fingers and toes. The cool smoothness of the bed sheets feeling unreal against his skin. He needs something more than the blankness of smooth cotton. Every nerve ending fires, demanding something rough and primal, seeking contact. The case had been a particularly filthy one, crawling through the makeshift tunnels laid out by a geographically-challenged bank robber. The dank closeness had been comforting; the effort required to summon concern over potential cave-in had been beyond John’s, albeit limited, sense of self preservation. Maybe they should go back, explore the tunnels more fully - surely there are more secrets hidden there. There ought to be a hidden cavern, a deep place under the city, pitch black where sounds would echo _just so._

 

They’d stood, shoulder to shoulder, triumph glowing under the layers of mud, until Lestrade finally sent them home. The by-now-traditional admonishment to turn up in the morning for statements floating after them down the alley. There’d been an _almost_ moment in the front hall, a turning towards each other that _nearly_ tipped over into something more. An instant in which John could have moved to swipe a glob of dirt from Sherlock’s brow, when sharp silver eyes could have turned soft and green brown with the potential of it. A moment that passed in a flicker, too soft for their needs. They are unsuited to tenderness, Sherlock’s edges too sharp to be blunted by gentle touches, John’s needs too deep to offer them.

 

They’d gone beyond the moment, clattering up the stairs to the sitting room. Tea, the British solution, doing little to drown the tide of _not having_. John had used its brewing to allow himself more time, the excuse of only one washroom and tea that needed minding to hold close the sensation of mud drying over his skin. The careful passage in the hall, so as not to mar Sherlock’s pink-scrubbed skin and fresh pajamas. The turning away at the door, the white-knuckled grip of the knob against the need to run mud-dark fingers over pale skin. 

 

He’d stood just outside the spray, allowed the cool water to run over him just enough, bringing the muck back to life. Indulged the memory of dark places in the here and now of bright light and nearly gleaming tile. He ducked under the full stream, the memory washing away in rivers of murky water, the memory held fresh even as the evidence runs down the drain. He’d writhed against it, closed his eyes tight and dug for memories: cool water falling against stone, the different texture of water that falls in darkness.

 

Unable to shift his mood after that, wishing for low embers and rough stone over the cheery blaze and soft cushioned chair. His tea gone cold before he could bring it to his lips, bitter and earthy and almost satisfying. He’d managed the proper-and-expected responses to Sherlock’s exposition, let the words fill up the hollow spaces in him. He’d suggested going back, offered to search until they found the treasure trove. Sherlock waved the idea away, willing to let the Met slog through tunnels, unwilling to return to ground already covered. Already seeking new stimulations.

 

He’d rejected the idea of sliding from his chair, crossing the gap between them and simply entering Sherlock’s space, providing that new stimulation whether Sherlock willed it or not. Pushed aside the thoughts and pretended to drink the rest of his cold tea. Listened as he wound himself down, watched the heavy post-case lethargy steal over Sherlock until he had dragged himself out of his chair and down the hall without another word. Sat perfectly still until Sherlock closed the door against him, before he dared stir to turn out the lights and head to his own attic room.

 

And now John wished he had let Sherlock finish that sentence, months ago in Angelo’s. _“I’m flattered by your interest, but I’m not looking for....”_ So many possibilities for those final words, none of them promising for John. Knowing, having certainty would change everything, as it is and  faced with the possibility of rejection he spins a fantasy that better suits his mood. 

 

John writhes, opening himself up, stretching appendages long held close. Tangles himself in the cool-too-soft cotton, pulling and twisting to create texture where there is not enough. Giving himself over to the _need_. Pliant and willing, Sherlock’s pale skin bared, his warmth draining into the cold stone floor. Everything John doubts Sherlock would offer, all the things he knows he could take. If he was more like Harry, things he would have taken already. He could make Sherlock want him, could draw the kind of need that would reduce Sherlock to a grovelling shell of himself, needing only to be filled with John’s _wanting_.

 

He’ll take only what Sherlock offers, nothing more. But here in his too soft bed, with the memory of dark earth fading from his skin he will weave a rough cloth of the things he will never have. The deep rough echo of Sherlock’s demand, phrased as a plea. “ ** _Please John... please, I need...”_** The sensation, the enfolding, gathering up the soft warm flesh, sliding between the sweet cooling warmth of Sherlock’s skin and the deep cold of the rock beneath. He’ll allow that it would appear tender, at least until he wrapped himself around Sherlock’s neck and arms. Until he _lifts_ and pulls Sherlock close, coiling tight around his neck until Sherlock’s gasp gives him room to slide between Sherlock’s lips. John’s tentacles seeking warmth, coiling over Sherlock and sliding _in_ wherever they find purchase. 

 

John parts his own lips, his tongue seeking out the tip of the tentacle that pushes against his mouth. The first touch, tongue curling around the tip, gentle as a first kiss between lovers; sends sparks through all the others, and they turn from pulling at the sheets, roiling over his torso and down his legs. Sparking sensation and pulling him tight in an arch off the bed, giving him more room to spread and grow. 

 

He holds his torso still, aching for the memory of different flesh in his grasp, superimposing the long ago memory over the _idea_ of Sherlock, needy and straining towards him. The sharp hard lines of Sherlock’s mouth melting around the pulsing almost-warmth that grows between his lips, filling him until there is nothing left but the sharp press of teeth and the smooth swirl of tongue. John fills his own mouth, swirls his tongue in the way he knows he likes best. The way he would teach Sherlock, he savours the idea of taking Sherlock apart piece by piece in ways he hasn’t allowed himself since Lovecraft. Imagines it while pressing deep into his own throat, letting himself feel the possibility, the end of breathing, a reminder of his self-imposed limits.

 

The tentacles are filling, holding John tight and leaking from the tips. Slick and smooth across his flesh, never enough but all there is. The taste of salt and earth on his tongue, he moans as one finds his cock, another teasing at his arse. He thinks maybe he would fuck Sherlock first, tease him open with fingers and cock before taking him fully. The tentacle around his cock contracts, the almost painful tightness that comes from impatient preparation, smoothed only slightly by precome and the thicker mucus of the tentacles. 

 

The wash of guilt is expected, welcomed. He knows this is wrong, rewinds in his mind and prepares Sherlock properly, taking his time. He knows that Sherlock would need this, the slow twist of fingers, so much more unyielding than the tentacles, but designed for the restraint he needs. Limited he gives in to the sensations until he is whimpering around his own flesh. Desperate and gasping and so very glad his mouth is full so that he cannot cry his need to the heavens. There could be tenderness, even against the rough stone of some imagined cavern floor, need and desire fulfilled in tandem. The tiny sounds in Sherlock’s throat sparking along John’s tentacles, each sound creating the desire to draw out another. A feedback loop John would gladly keep Sherlock in for hours, if not decades. 

 

He imagines pulling out, sliding from between Sherlock’s lips, holding Sherlock open with just his tentacles and letting the full sound of his moans fill the cavern as John fucks him. His hips twitch against the coil around his cock, building rhythm that he matches with thrusts into his mouth. Coils brushing over his nipples, holding tight around his wrists, pinning Sherlock down in his imagination, holding him pliant against their shared need. 

 

The teasing at his arse becomes pressure, pressure becomes fullness and the image in John’s head jumps. John straddles Sherlock’s legs, grinding down onto his cock. Curling a tentacle deeper into Sherlock’s arse, claiming more of Sherlock than Sherlock ever can of John. He’d pull Sherlock close, press against him and lick at Sherlock’s lips, tease with his tongue as he rolled his hips until Sherlock groans and begs again. “ ** _John.”_** Demanding, allowing himself to be pulled close and holding to the belief that he complied only for John’s sake, clinging to his “transport” and his detachment even as his hips twitched between John’s arse and his tentacle. 

 

He’d open his mouth, breathe John’s air, and John would slip back into him, sliding between their lips and over their tongues until Sherlock’s lips were tight and John could lick the edges, tasting the place where Sherlock ends and John begins. He wants to stay like that, perhaps they might maintain some sort of balance until it didn’t matter anymore and they were one being again. John soaking up all of Sherlock’s pleasure and passing it back to him in small doses, giving Sherlock only what he needs, but never everything he wants. The coil around his cock tightens, undulating against the motions of his hips and he knows he would never be able to deny Sherlock. He’s too greedy for the proof of Sherlock’s pleasure, the knowledge that the jerks of Sherlock’s hips are because John has brushed against his prostate with a tip, the desperate sound Sherlock makes when John pushes too deep and triggers his gag reflex. Frustrated because he is no longer in control, desperate to be filled further, wanting John to take his air and only give him what he needs to survive. John could hold them both perfectly still, curl deep into Sherlock’s throat and watch as Sherlock tilts his head back, swallowing John deep, count heartbeats until Sherlock strains and fights to breathe.

 

The trust Sherlock has in John, and even without _this_ it is absolute, the faith that Sherlock has and John needs forces the sound of Sherlock’s name against the obstruction in John’s mouth. His hand closes over the coil around his cock, thumb rubbing over tip and head. Pleasures piling on pleasures to bring him crashing and groaning over the edge, every coil pulsing and contracting in time with the waves of his orgasm. Imagining Sherlock convulsing and pulsing beneath him, inside him and around him. Eyes rolled back in his head, Sherlock transported beyond the mere ecstasy of his drugs and deductions.  John closes his eyes tight, clinging to the last waves of pleasure and the image of Sherlock; pale and pure, streaks of dirt that marked the progress of John’s flesh across his. He shudders once more, sighing as he wrings the last of his pleasure from his body, pushing deep and imagining the last thrust of Sherlock’s hips, the first desperate gasp for breath when John leaves his mouth. The mutual loss as Sherlock’s cock slides free of John’s arse. John would linger inside Sherlock as long as he could, holding him close until Sherlock groans again and John pulls free, slow over sensitive skin, unwilling to give up the last of his points of contact. 

 

John realizes his mistake too late, the memory of the cold deep place doesn’t end well for the Sherlock-analogue. They’d stayed, curled in the dark until the stone had bled the last of the warmth from his victim. John wished that it was the first, or the last, perhaps the mistake that made him see the error of his ways. He tries, invents a camping stove, tent and sleeping bag. Anything to bring Sherlock through the fantasy into the real world again, to make his _need_ something he has a hope of fulfilling. Just as he can’t imagine crossing the divide in the sitting room he can’t imagine having Sherlock in darkness and holding onto him afterwards. He inhales sharply and clutches the pillow, grounding himself in the softness. _I’ve changed, I’m not that monster anymore... I know what I can’t have... and it is all fine._

 

He curls around himself, holding close and fighting to contain the shaking. He’ll be fine, tomorrow they will go into the Yard and give statements... with any luck Sherlock will catch the trail of a new case and they will be haring off after a murderer by lunch time. 

 

_It is fine... it is enough._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for These Blackest of Years](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013318) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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